


Through the Paths of This World

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: First and Commander: Namira Lavellan x Cullen Rutherford [10]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Introspection, Lyrium Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 03:51:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3595266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Inquisitor Namira Lavellan escapes through the eluvian in the Arbor Wilds, her advisors and forces have no way of knowing what has happened to her.  The worst is feared, and as the days pass with no news, Cullen begins to lose hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Cullen stood there in the half-ruined Temple of Mythal, leaves crunching beneath his boots as he walked ancient halls.  He barely noticed the elvhen architecture, the well-tended trees, the magical lights glowing from the stones.  His attention was focused elsewhere.

Samson was tied up, unconscious on the ground at the foot of the stairs.  Cullen’s fury flickered at the edge of his awareness, a force he barely managed to tamp down.  Samson would be dealt with later.  For now, he was as useless as the corpses of his red templars they found littering the temple grounds.  They had also found the bodies of a few Dalish elves in strange armor, possibly cultists maintaining the temple, but they found no one living.

Cullen stared at crumbled stone at the top of a small flight of stairs.  The lay of the area made it look like an altar of some kind, but it had been destroyed, possibly by Corypheus.  There were scorch marks here as if the dragon had attacked as well; they had seen the beast flee the battlefield only a few hours before.  He saw chunks of stone with a smooth, curved edge piled on each other.  Perhaps there had been some kind of receptacle or pool there, though the stone was wholly dry, and it had all been reduced to rubble.

His abilities to sense magic had diminished greatly since he first stopped taking lyrium, but he still felt the tingle in the air around this place, that heavy atmosphere over the stone.   _Something_ was here, though he could not guess what.  Mixed with the sundered stone he saw fine shards of glass scattered in the rubble, though what structure they came from could not be guessed; there were no windows, no mirrors in the temple around him, nothing to suggest what they could have been.  

He remembered they had been looking for an eluvian, one of those ancient artifacts, but there did not seem to be enough glass here for that unless it was buried beneath the stone.  Briefly the terrible idea hit him that bodies could be beneath the stone, and he hurried over the rocks, searching for traces of blood or clothing or weapons.  There was no evidence that anyone was buried here, but --

“Namira!” he shouted.  

He knew it was unlikely to garner a response.  The soldiers had been through here three times calling for survivors, and as their voices had echoed around the empty chambers, so did his.  His chest rose and fell rapidly.  There was a panic clawing at him now, welling up from within, but he was determined to master it.  She would be found.   _She would!_

He let out a long, deep breath.   _Andraste be with her._ The thought soothed him slightly, despite the fact he knew she did not believe in the Maker.  He would believe strongly enough for both of them, and if Andraste could help, he would be a fool not to ask.

From the steps he watched the scouts still scouring the temple, searching for clues.  But the elven runes inscribed on the stones were little more than nonsense to them, yielding no answers as to what this place was for or what it harbored.  Morrigan herself had had only had a vague suggestion, but she could not be found either, nor Solas, Sera, or Cassandra.

Leliana and Josephine climbed the steps to meet him, their faces darkened.  “There has been no sign of her or the others from my scouts and ravens,” Leliana said softly.  “Have you been able to make out what happened here after Corypheus fled?”

“We’ve found Samson,” said Cullen grimly, forcing himself to breathe more slowly and focus on the task at hand.  “But he’s in no shape for interrogation.  I think it’s safe to say Na-- the Inquisitor found him and dealt with him, as we found Dagna’s rune not far from where he fell.  But as to what happened after that, we cannot guess.”

“Could she have gone into the Fade again?” Josephine asked.  “Is there any way of knowing?”

“No one saw a Fade rift open,” said Leliana.  “But it does not mean it could not have happened.  Could they have found the eluvian and traveled through it?  Though none has been found...”  She hesitated, looking at the pile of rubble.

“There’s glass in here, but it’s nearly pulverized.  I can’t tell if it came from one of those mirrors,” Cullen said.  “Perhaps some of the men can go through this pile here.  I can feel that there was some kind of powerful magic on it, but I can’t tell you any more than that.”  Cullen’s mouth curled into a grimace.  “We’ll keep searching.”

 

* * *

 

By nightfall, though, they were still no closer to learning what had happened.  The rubble had been cleared by a team of Cullen’s men working feverishly, but there was no remnant of any member of the Inquisition.  No piece of glass larger than a fingernail was found, and there was no frame of an eluvian.  If one had been there, it was thoroughly destroyed.

They could find no living witnesses to what had occurred in the temple save Samson, who still lay unconscious.  The healers did not believe that he would die, but it appeared that Dagna’s rune had severely weakened him, and between the red lyrium and the damage the Inquisitor had done, he would need time to recover.

Leliana had sent ravens far and wide to their outposts, in case travel through the eluvian had been achieved or a Fade rift had been opened.  She assured Cullen they were winging their way as quickly as possible, and that she had instructed the Inquisitor to send messages back as soon as she could, were she to receive a message-bird.  But little more could be done for the time being.  Even Leliana’s ravens required a few days to reach Skyhold.

Cullen did not know what to do.

He had never done well with inaction, and this day was no different.  He was surly, face set in a scowl as he paced the camp back and forth, his feet treading a well worn path.  The scouts stayed out of his way and he did not blame them.  His hand played at his sword hilt, clasping it, unclasping it, a nervous tic.  

He felt bruises beginning to form beneath his armor but he ignored them.  He would be more comfortable if he removed his armor and readied for bed, but he did not want to do so.  If he took off his armor, if he made as if to sleep, that would be acknowledging the end to this day; he would be giving in to not knowing what became of her.

He felt a touch at his arm and he recoiled, turning to see who it was.  It was Leliana, her eyes glimmering in the light from the campfire.  “Cullen.  Go to sleep.  There’s nothing more we can do tonight,” she said in a low voice, leading him away from the firelight into the shadows beside his tent.

“We should have had more people searching,” he said fiercely.  “Or sent more with her to begin with.”

“You are scaring the soldiers,” Leliana said, giving him a significant look.  She glanced back at those gathered around the campfire.  “They see how upset you are.”

“Upset?  Of course I’m upset --”  He stopped, seeing the look on her face, and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.  “Point taken,” he said stiffly.

“We’ll go into the temple again tomorrow,” said Leliana.  “Whatever happened to her, we’ll find her.  I promise you that.”  She smiled kindly at him.  “No one can stay hidden from me for long, remember?”

“All right,” he said.  She nodded and slipped back toward the fire, shadow weaving around her as she went.  

He glared at the opening to his tent, then crawled into it, sitting cross-legged on the ground.  He did not bother lighting the lantern.  He pulled his cloak and tunic off over his shoulders, then he irritably worked at the fastenings of his armor.  Instead of setting his armor up on the stand made for such a purpose, he let it tumble onto the ground, not caring whether it might become scratched or scuffed.

He sat on his unfurled bedroll in only his trousers and undershirt, finally able to notice the way his muscles were beginning to tighten up and protest the battles of the day.  Without lyrium he recovered much more slowly; that, and he was beginning to remember he was no longer twenty years old.  He groaned, wincing at a particularly troublesome bruise over his ribs.

Part of him knew he was trying to focus on other things, little things, so that he would not think about her.  He would go mad if he thought too much about it.  What if Corypheus had taken her?  What if he was able to remove the Anchor, as he had tried to at Haven?  She had told Cullen how much it had hurt during the attempt, and his hands balled into fists, thinking about her in pain.  What if she had fallen into the Fade again and could not find her way free?  What if the dragon had bested her?  What if --

He gritted his teeth.  He could feel a headache coming on, accompanied by the electric, shooting pains in his hands that came sometimes with an episode.  The symptoms of lyrium withdrawal were always worse under duress.  He was almost surprised it had taken this long, given how trying the day had been.  

He swallowed, curled his fingers again and again.  Sometimes the motion helped relieve the pains, but it did not help tonight.  He pulled his blankets over himself, shivering despite the warm temperatures outside, the blankets, the clothing he still wore.  He knew the chill in his bones came from within.

Cullen wished again that she was there with him, safe and sound.  He could handle this blasted pain, the sweat beading on his forehead, the nausea so much better when she was with him.  He could trust his own resolve with her beside him.  But when he was alone…

She reached out her hand, the green mark flaring.  He reached to her but before he could touch her, Corypheus was there, his dragon landing beside her.  Cullen was frozen in place, unable to lift his sword or shield to help her.  She fought the beast, spells of electricity dancing from her staff and her hands, but the dragon only roared before vomiting red lyrium-tinged flame at her.  She fell, struck senseless by the blast, and the dragon roared again, its great head snapping forward, jaws working swiftly, slavering as it devoured --

“Namira!” he gasped, waking suddenly.

He lay there panting, his shirt and hair heavy with sweat, the blankets suffocating him.   _It was only a dream._ He repeated it to himself, over and over, until he almost believed it.  He threw the blankets off, the warm night air feeling still and stagnant.  He pulled off the rest of his clothes, throwing them to the side with the blankets, and sat up, resting his arms on his knees as his breathing slowed.

“The Light shall lead her safely, through the paths of this world,” he whispered.  But he faltered at the rest of the verse. _Through the paths of this world, and into the next._ He could not think about her leaving this world… leaving _him_.

He buried his face in his hands, willing himself to make it through the night.

 


	2. The Whisper in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still no news, and the fear grows stronger daily.

Cullen stumbled out of his tent, his eyes bleary, head throbbing with a dull, nagging ache still.  His sleep had been broken and disjointed, between further nightmares and intermittent chills and fever.  The only thing good about last night what that he could not remember the nightmares well, not with the overbright sun piercing his eyes.  It was later than he had meant to sleep; dawn was past an hour back.

He spied Josephine and Leliana at the message station and loped towards them, allowing a brief flare of hope when he saw them with their heads bent over a piece of parchment.  Leliana looked cool and collected as always, Josephine as poised in the woods of the Arbor Wilds as she was back in Skyhold.  He hurriedly ran a hand over his hair, trying to smooth down the curls, but he could feel he was only partially successful.

“Has there been news?” he asked urgently, laying his hands on the table.  They both looked up, taken aback.

“There has been no word,” Josephine said.  “We have some of our best messengers fanning out, spreading the word among the nearby towns and villages to be on the lookout.”  She peered into his face, frowning.  “Commander, did you sleep at all last night?”

“I slept plenty,” he lied, rubbing his face with one hand.  “Enough about me.  How is Samson?”

“Still unconscious,” said Leliana, her brow furrowing.  “Our people are combing the temple for other clues.  They have found there are a great many puzzles and rituals to the temple, and they are working on them.  It is possible the Inquisitor could still be somewhere in the temple, a secret area where she may have sought safety from Corypheus.  We are looking everywhere.”

Cullen nodded sharply.  “I’ll be down there with them.  Keep me apprised if any messages arrive.”

“Of course,” said Leliana.  She shot Josephine a look.  “Don’t forget to eat something, Cullen.  I noticed you did not eat dinner last night.”

He started to narrow his eyes at her, then thought better of it; he sighed.  “Maker’s breath -- if you insist.”

“She is right, you know.  It will not do to have our Commander fall over from starvation,” said Josephine.  “We are all worried about her, but you must take care of yourself while we await news.”

He waved a hand at them, but obediently made his way to the campfire.  As he bolted down a meal of porridge, he could not help but feel frustrated and grateful both.

 

* * *

 

The day brought no answers, and the sky was empty, clouds unmarred by Leliana’s messengers.  No news.  No word.  No solace.

Cullen tried to stay focused.  He divided and conquered, delegated and commanded.  Troops combed the Wilds for surviving members of Corypheus’ forces, for signs of the Inquisitor and her allies, for clues to the purpose and content of the temple.  They found no secret rooms, though, no clues they did not already possess.

He tried to tell himself that Cassandra would let no harm befall Namira, that if anyone could protect her, the former Seeker could.  He owed Cassandra so much -- surely he could owe her a little more.  But they found no sign of either of them, nor Sera, Solas or Morrigan.

He prowled the woods himself after giving orders, sweating inside his armor at the subtropical temperatures, nattering parrotlet voices ringing in his ears as he passed.  He supposed their raucous cries were an improvement on the sounds of demons shrieking through gibbering mouths, red templars shouting with their voices human and not, half-mad Grey Wardens dancing like puppets on strings.  But the shrill sound of the brightly colored birds still set his teeth on edge.

He shook his head.   _Red templars._  Of all Corypheus’ crimes this was the one that made him sickest.  How Samson could have looked upon those men who followed him and used their trust to turn them into monsters --

Cullen froze beneath the shade of a wide and grasping tree, suddenly remembering one of the nightmares he had had last night.  It hit him hard, the images as sharp and crystalline if he was there again.  

Namira alone, surrounded by men and women with melted faces and red lyrium crusting their flesh.  They mocked her in those buzzing voices -- “ _Dirty knife-ear, you’ll get what’s coming to you_ ” -- and one of them, a hulking behemoth, raised its fist.  She tried to fight, lightning arcing from her to paralyze some of the smaller templars, but the large one rushed forward despite the storm.  It smashed into her, knocking her to the ground.  She screamed, the sound torn from her throat, and the creature raised its jagged arm for a killing blow.  It struck and she screamed again, trying to raise an arm to shield herself, blood streaming from a grievous wound to her head.  The monster’s arm kept swinging, hitting its target with a sickening noise until he could not hear the screams, until the stench of red lyrium was deep in Cullen’s throat and nostrils, until it choked him --

Cullen staggered, reaching out one arm to lean heavily against the wide tree trunk.  He shook his head, trying to clear the images away.  “It isn’t real,” he hissed.  He hated the way that the absence of lyrium made such things so damned _vivid_ when they hit.  He tried to listen to the shrieking of the birds, but all he could hear was her voice in that moment of terror.  

“The Light shall lead her safely…” he began again, but he stumbled over the words, their sounds hollow in his ears.  The birds crying overhead brought no comfort.

 

* * *

 

The second day had been difficult.  The third day was wrenching.  The fourth day was unbearable.

He would not join Leliana and Josephine around the campfire, unable to bear the worry in their eyes.  He was not hungry, either, and took little of the food that one of his scouts had brought for him.  He slunk into his tent when night fell, preferring to be alone even if more nightmarish visions came to mind.  He tried to keep them at bay by thinking of other things.

He remembered their flight from Haven.  He had been certain, in a way that shook him to the core, that she had fallen.  He had not loved her then, had barely come to realize that he cared for her more than he should as her advisor, and still, he had been bowed with grief.  

Yet Namira Lavellan had surprised him.  He sighed, remembering the way she had collapsed into the snow, how he had gathered her into his arms and carried her back still breathing, still fighting.  He had been overwhelmed with tenderness, cradling her within his arms.  She had come back to him.  

He prayed she could do it again.  Maker knew she had frightened him since then when she fell into the Fade at Adamant, but that had been _seen_ , it had been witnessed.  He had felt that fear for her then, but it was so short-lived -- only two or three hours of uncertainty, before she ripped the Veil again and tumbled out.  He had grieved the loss of Hawke, he and Varric bowing their heads together in silence at Skyhold, but he had been painfully grateful for her sacrifice.  It had meant Namira could come back to him once more.

But surely no woman could dance with death so often and cheat it every time…

Cullen sat in his tent, head resting in one hand, eyes closed, back bowed.  He tried to think of the strength she possessed, the people she had with her.  Cassandra would protect her.  Solas would die before letting Corypheus succeed in unraveling the world, Morrigan would die before letting the creature steal any magical artifact from her, and Sera -- he almost chuckled.  Sera would toss a jar of bees at the darkspawn magister to help make an escape, and Maker be with him, he could see it actually _working_.  Maybe Namira would be all right, after all….

Or maybe she was dead, obliterated in whatever devastation had rocked the temple, no remains left to bury beneath a leafy oak.  She had asked him once in the middle of the night, after a nightmare of her own, to do this for her if the worst happened.  He had promised her he would not have her remains cremated by the Chantry, but rather buried in the forest for grass and tree to use as her customs demanded.  He had hated the urgency with which she asked him, hated the way he agreed with a heavy heart, but he could not look into her worried face and see her vallaslin and tell her he wouldn’t.  

Cullen had lied to himself after that.  He had tried to tell himself the question would not come up again.  How foolish he’d been.

Hours later he sat there still awake, his thoughts racing.  His body was exhausted but the fear would not let him sleep.  Any comfort had left him long ago, replaced by shaking hands, that tightness pulling in his chest, pains crackling in his muscles and his gut.  It was always worse without her.  And what if this was how it always would be now --

“No,” he said into the darkness.  He tried again to reach for the Chant.  “I shall not to be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade.  For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker’s light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

He remembered saying these words as a boy, as a young templar, as one bowed with bitterness.  In the dark these memories seemed larger, looming like the shadows around him, whispering to him of the man he used to be.  

At times he still felt himself unworthy of his position, remembering that person he had been.  Now he was the commander regarded with trust and respect, the man Namira loved, and it seemed too good to be believed when he remembered the shame and the rage that used to overwhelm him.  He recalled the Chant falling from his lips, hollow and hated, empty words from an empty man, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the old fears to stay back.

If he had been faster -- if he had been stronger -- maybe he and his soldiers could have stormed the temple sooner, could have aided her against whatever she had found there, could have kept Corypheus from her --

He forced himself to take a deep breath, the pain in his chest lessening.  There could still be hope.  Even the fastest of Leliana’s birds would not reach Skyhold until tomorrow.  Maybe soon there would be news.

He clung to this through the night, but he still slept only fitfully, waking every few minutes, laying awake for long stretches before he slipped back into broken sleep.  Despite the exhaustion this was better; at least this way he had no dreams.

 


	3. The Deep Dark Before Dawn's First Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson awakens, and Cullen prays he will have answers.

“Commander Cullen,” Josephine’s voice came at the entrance of his tent.  “I have just received word from the healers.  Samson is awake.”

Cullen threw his clothes back on, nearly hitting himself in the head with the shoulder of his armor in his haste to dress.  He ripped back the covering to the front of his tent, wild-eyed.  “Has he spoken?” he growled.

Josephine stepped back from him, pointing in the direction of the healers’ portion of the camp.  “They told Leliana that he only began to stir about an hour ago.  You may not be able to get much from him, Cullen.”  She hesitated.  “Do not lose hope if he does not tell you what you wish to know.”

“Hope,” he said bitterly.  “At this point I just want answers.”

“I know,” she said.  “We all do.  And I pray to Andraste that she will watch over them and keep them safe.”

Cullen gazed at her, seeing the concern in her face, darkening shadows beneath her eyes.  She feared the worst as well.  “Thank you, Josephine,” he said.  “I will learn what I can from him.  He has much to answer for.”

“That he does,” she murmured.  “Good luck, Commander.”

He had to force himself not to run to the healers’ encampment, reminding himself of the lesson Leliana had needed to give him that first night.  It would not do to alarm the soldiers.  They still needed him to be their commander, a thought that made his stomach twist.  He could only go through the motions right now; he could not be what they needed.

He hurried to the encampment as quickly as he allowed himself.  The chief surgeon and an elven mage met him at the first tents.  “Does he speak?” Cullen asked them.  They had no need to ask who he meant.

“He remembers events well enough before the temple,” said the elf.  “He knows where and why we are here, but we saved further questioning for you.”

“Whatever he has to say, I will hear it,” Cullen said.  They led him to a cot beneath the shade of a ten-foot-tall tree, where Samson lay clad in a simple shift, his armor finally removed.  A blanket had been stretched over him none too carefully, and his hands and legs were clapped in irons, a chain circling between the bonds and the trunk of the tree.

Rage boiled within Cullen’s chest, threatening to escape through his fists and mouth and sword.  He had _known_ this man, fought with him as brothers in arms, tried with him to keep Kirkwall from collapsing into ruin.  Samson looked different now, his hair longer and lanker, with an unhealthy red tinge to the whites of his eyes and a gauntness to his face that made him seem a decade older.  His skin was sallow, almost drooping off his face.  His eyes stared blankly at the leaves above him, but when Cullen approached, he turned towards him and smiled.

“Wipe that smile off your face, Samson, before I do it for you,” Cullen bit out.  

“Nice place for a reunion, isn’t it, Knight-Captain?” Samson coughed.  “Bit of leafy greenery, birds singing, it’s almost pleasant.”

“Don’t you dare call me that.  I’d tell you to shut your mouth, but you’re going to answer some questions for me first.”  His hand gripped the hilt of his sword, tightening around it.  “What happened in the Temple of Mythal?”

Samson closed his eyes, shaking his head.  “Everything’s lost now.  Won’t matter what I tell you.  But I don’t remember more than bits.”

“You’re lying,” Cullen snarled, stalking to the edge of the other man’s cot, leaning over him until their faces were only a few inches apart.  Up close he could see the hollows in Samson’s cheeks and the wrinkles at his eyes.  He felt a savage satisfaction, knowing that while the red lyrium had not claimed the other man yet, it would take its due.  He pulled back, eyes narrowing.

“Swear to you, I’m not, Cullen,” Samson mumbled.  “All I remember is entering that damned temple… there were elves there, some kind of Dalish guardians I think, and they fought me and my men…”

“What else?  We found no elves in the temple, save for corpses.”

“Found your girl,” said Samson, grinning weakly.  “I see why you’re sweet on her  --”

Cullen’s hand was on the other man’s throat in an instant, crushing, choking.  It would be so easy to make him pay for his crimes, to just keep squeezing, to end him now --

“Commander!” the surgeon snapped from behind him.  Cullen released the other man’s neck with a frustrated bark, stepping backward and letting his hands hang at his sides, though his fingers still curled as if to constrict.  

“Just interrogating the prisoner,” he muttered.  He rubbed the back of his neck, breathing heavily.

“Don’t be bashful now,” Samson choked out.  “You don’t think you’re the only one with spies, do you?”  He laughed again, the sound a rough sputter.  “I’ve heard all about your little love affair.”

“What happened to her?” Cullen said viciously.  

Samson stopped laughing, finally.  His reddened eyes searched Cullen’s in confusion.  “Dunno what you mean.  She did something to me, I think.  Couldn’t fight the same.  My armor --”  He patted his chest with his hands, the manacles clanking.  “Knocked me out.  Don’t remember anything after that until I woke up here.”  He squinted up at Cullen.  “What d’you mean, what happened to her?”

Cullen let out a long breath, closing his eyes, an aching sense of disappointment welling up within him.  “Never -- never mind that.”  He couldn’t bear to give Samson the satisfaction of going into further detail.  He opened his eyes again, glaring at the prone man on the cot.  “What were you doing in the temple?”

“I was to be the Vessel,” Samson said dully, his bravado fading.  “The Well of Sorrows was a pool inside the temple, filled with the knowledge of ancients.  It was supposed to bring the Elder One what he needed to proceed and destroy your Inquisition.  I was to drink from it and bring the knowledge to him.”

“What about the eluvian?” Cullen asked.  “Did Corypheus want to use it to enter the Fade?”

“He told me the mirror was only a lesser goal,” Samson said.  “It would have been useful to him, but the real treasure was the Well.  I’m guessing your girl got to it first.”

“We found no well,” Cullen said.  “If it was there, it has been destroyed.”

“Dunno then,” said Samson, rolling onto his side and turning his back to Cullen.  “You done yet?  I’ll tell you what I know -- I’ve got nothing left now -- but she gave me a splitting headache and I’d like to get back to sleep.”

“You make me sick,” Cullen said, his voice dropping dangerously.  “Answer me one more thing -- was it worth it?”

Samson’s shoulders curled inwards, and he wrapped his arms around himself the best he could with the chains on.  “Don’t judge me, _Knight-Captain_ , without looking at yourself in the mirror.”

 

* * *

 

Cullen wanted to destroy something.  Anything.  Anything to release this blinding anger, get it out of him so its weight could stop smothering him.  His hands ached but he did his best to ignore it.

He kept finding himself reaching compulsively for his sword, wishing to draw it and fight.  His shield arm felt too light, bereft of the comforting weight he craved now.  If only Cassandra were here, they could spar; the cleanness of the fight always brought him some comfort.  But she was gone like Namira, and he did not trust himself now to fight any of his soldiers.  It would not be fair to them, to have to face Cullen at his worst.

He carted one of the training dummies into the woods, shield strapped on his back.  After his brief interrogation of Samson, he had spoken with Leliana and had her send her scouts to search for remnants of the Well of Sorrows and the eluvian.  Once he was certain they had begun their work, he had headed for the impromptu training grounds the troops had set up for their exercises, and taken one of the ungainly practice models.  He carried the dummy far down into a gully, where he would be away from the eyes of most of the troops.  He set it up under a small grove of trees, then slipped his shield over his arm and drew his sword.

Cullen weighed the sword in his hand, his gloved fingers wrapping around the grip.  This he understood.  This was familiar to him.  He thrust at the dummy, parried an imaginary blow, swung his shield at the dummy’s chest and connected, making it wobble on its base.  His hands throbbed with a shooting pain, but he shoved through the sensation, panting.

He moved in the old familiar forms he had learned as a templar, his body circling, feinting, lunging, feet and arms and core and back working together.  He had practiced these exercises for twenty-five years now, since he was a boy of thirteen, and they came to him as naturally as breathing.

Lately, the breathing had been getting the better of him.

He ran the dummy through with the sword, taking care to block as if it had raised a weapon against him.  He thought of sparring in Kirkwall, Samson laughing when he struck a hit, the other man’s eyes clear with no red tingeing them.  They had been friends then, or he thought they had, though they had drifted when Samson was disgraced.  He had heard rumors of the man begging for lyrium, had pitied and reviled him both.

Cullen feinted, sidestepped, bashed forward with his shield.   The dummy staggered again, spinning around.  It was no match for him, and he wished again Cassandra was here.  He could have been that man, begging on the street, if it had not been for her and the hand she had offered him in trust.  She had led him out of the sickness that festered in Kirkwall and the templar order, and given him new purpose.  Her faith in him had led him to try and change, to cut the leash, and it was through her he had met Namira --

He whipped his blade to the side of the dummy, slicing it through where its liver would be.  He had been so certain Samson would be the key and would reveal new information on what had happened to her, for good or for ill.  He knew the man well enough to know when he was lying, and Samson had told him the truth.  He was no closer to finding her now than before.

A particularly sharp pain spiked behind his eye to join the shooting pains in his hands, and he misstepped, catching his foot on a tree root.  He stumbled, gasping.

“Namira,” he whispered, hanging his head.  Maker, but if she was not out there… if she was not safe…  With every passing day the faint hope he still bore for her grew weaker.

He tried to recite the Chant again.  “Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light.  I shall weather the storm.  I shall endure --”  But the words were dust in his mouth.  He could not endure this; there was no comfort here.  He did not know why he bothered.

The sun shone down on him, warm and kindly.  The day was beautiful, a soft breeze fluttering the emerald leaves of the trees, the air scented with honeysuckle and jasmine.  Birds sang sweetly in the treetops.  And Cullen dropped his sword and shield, fell to his hands and knees in the rich loam, and wept.

 


	4. Know That the Sun Always Rises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last Cullen receives the word he has been hoping for.

Hours later Cullen finally made his way back to camp.  The training dummy stood forgotten in the gully.  The lack of sleep and the heartache and the frustration had finally caught up to him, and he had not felt as if he had the strength to carry it back with him.  He would go to it again tomorrow.  Perhaps tonight he might finally get some sleep, though the dried tears sticky on his cheeks and the muzzy feeling in his head spoke otherwise to that.

He crested the hill into camp, and immediately felt a difference.  The scouts and soldiers were -- they were _smiling_.  He saw people joking, signs of _relaxation_.  His heart quickened.  Had they heard news?  

He hurried to where Josephine and Leliana had camped, this time not caring if the soldiers saw him running.  He ran, his cloak streaming out behind him, his shield bouncing on his back on its strap, his exhaustion forgotten.

He rounded the corner and saw Leliana and Josephine standing by the message birds.  “Is there news?” he burst out.

They both turned to face him, smiles spreading across their faces.  “Cullen!  I was going to send out the scouts for you in a moment!” Leliana exclaimed.  She brandished a stack of parchment at him.  “Cullen, she’s _alive_.  And unharmed.”

Josephine laid a hand on his arm to steady him.  He felt dizzy with relief.  “She’s all right?” he gasped.  

“She’s at Skyhold, Commander,” Josephine said joyfully.  “There _was_ an eluvian, and they were able to travel back to Morrigan’s mirror in Skyhold almost instantaneously.  She has been safe there since.”

“Here,” said Leliana, forcing the papers into his hand.  “Read them.  There’s one for you.  I didn’t even open it,” she said with a playful smile.  “Go and rest, Cullen.  We can ride out to meet them tomorrow.”

Josephine patted him on the back, her touch sure yet gentle.  “We’ll make the arrangements.  Please, go rest.”

He nodded at them both, made his way back to his tent, unable to speak.  As soon as he was indoors he was sitting down, tearing off his gloves so his trembling hands could unfold the sheaths of parchment.  He saw her handwriting, spidery and a little uneven as if she had rushed it, and he let out a shaky laugh.

 

* * *

 

_25 Kingsway, 9:41 Dragon_

_To my advisors:_

_I am not certain of what happened in the Temple of Mythal after we fled Corypheus.  We discovered ancient elves inside -- they claim to predate even my people -- and they aided us in fighting against the red templars.  We badly wounded Samson.  I do not know if he still lives._

_Corypheus was truly after a pool within the temple, the Well of Sorrows.  Whosoever drinks of the well gains immeasurable knowledge, but also remains in the service of Mythal, one of our Creators, for eternity.  I did not drink; I left that task to Morrigan.  She has been weak since we returned a few hours ago, but she believes that she can quickly sort through the knowledge she has gained to fight Corypheus._

_He found us only moments after Morrigan drank of the Well, and we were forced to flee through the eluvian.  It took us to the crossroads between the mirrors and we were able to travel back to Skyhold through Morrigan’s eluvian.  I do not know what happened in the temple after we evaded Corypheus and his dragon, and I can only hope that his wrath was not taken out upon our forces.  However, so much of his army was lost he may have fled himself.  But if the eluvian was destroyed, we realized that you would not know what became of us._

_Morrigan is weakened by her ordeal, but recovering even as we speak.  Cassandra, Solas, and Sera are all well, and I am unharmed, though awed by what we discovered at the temple._

_Please accept also a private letter for Commander Cullen.  Dear Leliana, I know you like to read these, but let him have this one to himself.  I suspect that no matter what the state of the temple, he is worried about me._

_Send an update as soon as you are able.  I will need the three of you in Skyhold as quickly as you can ride if we are to plan our next strike against Corypheus.  He did not expect us in the temple, and I think we have greatly weakened him.  The end may be in sight._

_Inquisitor Lavellan_

* * *

 

_To you, ma vhenan,_

_I hope you have not worried too much about me by the time this finds you.  When I realized that we returned to Skyhold in the space of an instant I knew there was a chance you would not be able to find out what happened to us.  I am so sorry, Cullen.  There was no other choice, but I fear it may cause you great heartache before you get this letter, especially if Corypheus damaged the temple in some way and left you to think the worst._

_The temple was… amazing.  You know I have had my doubts about the Creators of my people.  Yet we met elves in the temple with vallaslin who had never heard of the Dales, who spoke of Arlathan.  I had almost grown to believe Arlathan a myth, a fairy-story of my people, and yet there was power in that temple that felt incredibly old.  Even after everything my Keeper taught me, I could not read the runes we found; the temple holds great mysteries._

_I could feel the weight of centuries in the Well of Sorrows.  It frightened me.  I have seen many things, been in the Fade, fought demons and more… and yet the chance that Mythal could have truly been real, not as a wise elf or even a spirit, but as some power more than either of those things… it makes me question much of what I thought I knew.  It is why I feared to drink from the Well.  If Mythal was truly real… we pray to her but we also fear her.  And I feared to do what Morrigan did.  I hope neither of us regret it, but for now, I think I made the right choice._

_But I hope that with the Inquisition resources, perhaps we could protect the temple, keeping it safe for other elves.  There is so much history there, and we deserve the chance to investigate it.  Perhaps once Corypheus is ended we can get word to some of the Keepers…. and Morrigan tells me there **can** be an end, if we use the knowledge the Well has granted her._

_I miss you already, Cullen.  I had not planned on this interlude, and I did not get to say goodbye to you.  I will not make that mistake again._

_If you fret for me, please don’t worry, I am well.  And I hope that you are also well; I wish I could be there to help your nights feel safer.  I know we both sleep better when we are together._

_But I know you, and I know your strength.  You will endure, and when I see you again, I am going to kiss you senseless.  I would write other things that I intend to do with you, and to you, but despite my missive in the last letter I do not trust Leliana not to read this, so I will leave you to imagine them instead.  When you return to me, tell me what you’ve imagined, and I will make it so.  That’s a promise._

_I love you, Cullen.  Take care of yourself; I insist upon it.  And may the Creators watch over you, ma vhenan._

_With all my love,_

_Namira_

 

* * *

 

_30 Kingsway, 9:41 Dragon_

_My love,_

_Words cannot express my relief.  We could find no evidence of the Well or the eluvian, and though Samson lives, he could not tell us what had happened.  We feared the worst._

_I will not dwell on what the last few days have been like.  Suffice it to say that I was not at my best, Namira.  The thought of losing you undoes me.  I could not -- no, I cannot write it._

_We ride in the morning for Skyhold.  I will follow your advice to use my imagination on the ride back, my darling, and I am certain I will have quite the list for you by the time I return._

_I will not feel right until you are in my arms again._

_Yours always,_

_Cullen_

 

* * *

 

They rode in the morning, as promised.  Cullen had finally been able to find a few hours of unbroken sleep the night before, and he could feel the difference; he almost felt like himself again.  

It was good to shake the pollen of the Arbor Wilds from his boots and sit astride his horse.  Josephine, Leliana, and a small complement of soldiers and scouts rode with them for Skyhold.  The rest of their forces, led by Knight-Captain Rylen, would be making their way back over the next several weeks.

Cullen found himself soothed by the rhythmic motion of his horse’s steps.  He could lose himself in this, the wind on his face, the horse beneath him, Namira’s letter safely tucked into his knapsack.  He kept running the lines over in his head.   _I miss you already.  You will endure.  I love you, Cullen._  He would be with her soon.  A smile broke over his face.

Her words burned within him, a talisman to carry with him as he rode.  He remembered other words, too, the lines of the Chant seeming real and true again.

_Though stung with a hundred arrows, though suffering from ailments both great and small, his heart was strong, and he moved on._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course we all know that the Inquisitor is fine... but Cullen didn't, and I certainly enjoyed putting him through the wringer. *evil grin*

**Author's Note:**

> I did not mean this to get so long, but as soon as my Inquisitor leapt through the eluvian I thought, "Oh crap, everyone's going to think she's dead!" Then I thought "oooooh Cullen angst yessssssss." Hence, this fic.


End file.
